again & again
by fandrastic
Summary: she'd always been such a natural in front of the camera. spencer & sam. DARK!fic.


**again & again**

-x-

_you're so stupid and perfect  
and stupid and perfect  
i hate you, i want you  
i hate you, i hate you, oh  
again, again, again, again_

_-the bird & the bee_

-x-

_

* * *

_**HEY GUYS. THIS IS M FOR A REASON. ALSO, I APOLOGIZE IF IT'S CRAP.**

**x**

* * *

-x-

[january 2014]

It's Socko's fault.

Apparently, Socko's brother has this friend who knows this guy who is neighbors with a woman who heard—it doesn't matter. All that matters is that there is currently a text message on his phone that he can't seem to wrap his mind around.

_dude I think your sister's blonde web show friend is in a porno!_

The phone in question is resting in the middle of the kitchen island, blinking the same text every few minutes. He doesn't even have the strength to click out of the reminder message, he's completely dumbstruck.

_sister's blonde friend_

_in a porno_

It has to be a joke, right? Or at least some farfetched gossip. Socko's notorious for never getting his stories straight—surely this is just some sort of mix up, something he heard wrong and passed on wrong. Totally false. Because Sam…

_dude I think your sister's blonde web show friend is in a porno!_

Slowly, he reaches for his phone and types out a reply with numbed fingers.

_prove it._

* * *

-x-

[april 2013]

* * *

It's the middle of April of Carly's senior year, and she's in Yakima visiting Granddad for spring break (_he doesn't go because they're not on the greatest terms_) and Sam comes over to the loft unannounced with a store brand popsicle in one hand and the remaining box full in the other.

He's unfazed at her presence—when is she _not _over?—but he furrows his brow just slightly as some part of his mind recalls an undergrad psych class; something about Freud and phallic symbols—but Sam is kind of a scary/messy eater so the thought is quickly banished. Which is good. Because he _really_ shouldn't be thinking of her like that because she's eighteen and—

"Hey there, Hotstuff, what goes on?"

Her nonchalant delivery shatters his reverie and he sees that she's dripping popsicle juice all over the sofa cushions, but it's late (_actually kinda really late_) and it doesn't hit high on his list of things to obsess over at the moment. Like whether or not Red 40 comes out of canvas.

"Err, why are you here? Carly's in Yakima, you know that, right?"

She sighs heavily like she's humoring him, like it's a strain on her mental wellbeing to put up with him. It makes scowl for some reason.

"Oh Spence," she slams the cool, damp box of popsicles against his chest, forcing him to hold onto them, "Mama knows everything. Carls texted me earlier and wanted me to check in on you every once in a while to make sure you weren't dead. She went on about putting those plastic covers over the electrical sockets for you or something. I think, I wasn't really listening."

Peering inside the box, he notes that only the icky grape popsicles remain. Typical.

"That's, kind of nice, I guess." He trails off, still clutching the popsicles close.

She waves him off.

"Whatever. D'you got a date tonight? Or is Socko coming over?"

"…No."

"Boss. Then I'm staying here."

He gives her a surprised look.

"What? Why?"

Again with the sighing.

"Sheesh, have we met? You've got the flat screen and the fridge filled with food. Therefore, I'm staying. So sit down and have a popsicle. They're purple flavored."

"Grape."

"No no," she corrects absently, "look at the box. _Purple_ flavored. Dig in, Spence."

He concedes with a nod and tears off the sticky paper of the purple treat, mindful not to ruin the couch cushions any further.

Sam makes a loud slurping noise as she slides her popsicle like, halfway down her throat, and once again, he forces himself not to think of exactly what that looks like. But it doesn't do any good, because the idea has already been implanted into his brain. It's going to be a long evening.

* * *

-x-

[june 2013]

* * *

Carly's graduation party is held two months later on the rooftop terrace of Bushwell, even though it's just as much of a party for Freddie and Sam and Gibby as it is for her.

Carly insists that they all dress up for the event, something that Freddie and Sam groan at, but Gibby seems thrilled at the prospect. Mrs. Benson concedes to the party with a sad sigh, holding in all of her irrational concerns for her son's wellbeing, (_a party on a roof?)_ still in disbelief that her little boy is a man now. She spends a good deal of the party wiping at her eyes with a damp handkerchief. Sam's mom doesn't show, naturally, and Gibby's mother is holding a party for her son the next day, and forgoes the trip to Bushwell (_and spencer's more relieved than he lets on_).

There's lots of loud music and lots of food and lots of awkward teenage dancing—which is like, weird pseudo jumping/swaying when it's not hardcore grinding. His sister is shooting Freddie coy glances like she's never seen him before and Gibby's got his shirt off and is tearing up the dance floor and Freddie's occupying himself with the music playlist but is surreptitiously eyeing Sam, and she's leaning against an isolated smokestack, unenthusiastically nursing a bottle of cream soda as she distances herself from the party. Carly managed to trick her into wearing a dress, and the shiny purple material is stretched a little too tightly across her frame. She looks uncomfortable and a little out of place, but she smiles when she sees him.

When he approaches her, a thought strikes him, and he thinks she looks quite beautiful. He isn't sure if he _should_ be thinking that. Silently, she offers up the rest of her cream soda and he downs it without a second thought—they've been sharing drinks for years and it's never seemed like a big deal before, but a couple of Carly's other friends shoot them surprised looks and whisper amongst each other like it's a big deal or something. Maybe it is, who knows.

There's a weird part of him that kind of wants to ask her to dance. She looks sort of lonely and Freddie doesn't have the balls to do ask her himself, but he doesn't know if it'll make Carly's friends whisper more. He doesn't know why he cares. Before he can debate over it internally, she slips her smaller hand into his, bringing him out of his thoughts, and leads him to the dance floor herself. It almost seems like six different kinds of cliché, but they're friends, so, whatever. Besides, she's smiling now and that's all he really cares about. Her hand is warm in his too. It's nice.

The music is some stupid slow song that he thinks is probably popular now, but he's never been a big fan of the newer music Carly listens to and certainly wouldn't be able to name the artist at gunpoint. The other couples are caught up in each other, but not enough to keep a few strange looks at bay. Sam's small stature is aided by the towering heels that his sister forced upon her, but it does help her reach up to loop her slim arms around his neck. He's never been this close to her without being in a headlock. The material of her dress is thin and slippery under his hands—Carly's friends are definitely whispering—and he keeps his palms firmly on the middle of her back to keep anymore gossip from spreading. He's not sure what they'd say anyway (_omg did you see carly's brother is dancing with sam they look so—_).

Sam breaks up the thick silence with a dirty joke, and he laughs. This is familiar, this is safe. The talking and the joking is good, because it means he can look at her without seeming creepy and weird or whatever to Carly's friends. They both make fun of whispering gaggle of girls and laugh over that too, and the song is over before he's really ready to end their conversation. Still, he pulls away from her because that's the right thing to do, but once more she threads her fingers with his. There's a weird feeling in his stomach—he's not sure what it is—but he lets himself be pulled away from the dance floor and the party and the rooftop of his apartment building. He's not sure if people have noticed and he's not sure if he cares.

They're descending the stairwell heading down to the top floor of apartments when she kisses him.

He's definitely stunned, frozen in place as she grabs his tie to pull his mouth closer to hers. By their own accord, his hands move up the smooth expanse of her back and his fingers thread through that familiar golden hair. She sighs (_and christ, he can feel it all over_) and runs her tongue across the seam of his lips. Their kiss deepens, his blood surges, and just as quickly, he yanks himself away, looking shell-shocked.

Sam looks horribly, deliciously rumpled and well-kissed; he violently rakes his hands through his hair at the sight. The pain in his scalp brings clarity, but amplifies the shouting disapproval in his head and deepens the pit in his stomach.

"Sam," he croaks, shaking his head in disbelief, "this didn't happen, this _can't _happen. Oh God…"

All he can think about is how Carly is going to kill him if she finds out. And Sam, oh, she looks absolutely livid (_and her skin is flushed and her eyes are so bright_), and he doesn't expect any less.

"What? Why not?"

"You know why." He says lowly, trying to straighten his tie.

"Tell me." She grits out.

"You're my little sister's best friend, and you're… Christ, you're only eighteen, and it's just…"

"So what? It doesn't matter, Spence—"

"Sam… we can't. _I_ can't. We just…can't."

"So you're saying no?"

There's a heavy pause. His shoulders fall in defeat.

"I'm saying no."

Wordlessly, she shakes her head and descends the stairs without another word, another glance. He wants to call after her, but he doesn't have anything comforting to say and he knows it won't do any good anyway. Besides, the words wouldn't have a chance to get past the tight knot in his throat.

He doesn't see her again after that and he knows it's his fault. And when he spends his time imagining her kissing him again (_and doing so much more_), he knows that's his fault too.

* * *

-x-

[july 2013]

* * *

Carly tells him that Sam's gone off to California to pursue a career in comedy. Or singing, or acting; he's not sure exactly what but he bets there's a camera and lights and maybe a blue remote with sound effects. Well there's probably no remote, but he wonders if her hair is still long. Maybe it's weird to wonder that.

He misses her but he doesn't breathe a word of it because that's the adult thing to do, right?

His sister goes on and on over how much she wishes her best friend was around and laments that Sam didn't put any effort into pursuing anything with a larger safety net, like college or a career or something. He tries to tell her that Sam's doing exactly what she wants, and so that's what is best for her (_right?_), but his words are halfhearted and Carly's not convinced.

It's probably the look on his face that ruins it—he looks pretty miserable most of the time now, and Carly's always snapping at him for brooding around the loft when she's _trying_ to deal with the fact that her best friend has moved away. He should probably comfort her, but he can't muster the façade of sympathy.

In a few months, Carly will be off to college and he can sulk or whatever without worrying if his sister is going to lose her voice from yelling at him so much. It's sad that their relationship has reached this point.

But he is going through enough popsicles to make a really intricate sculpture out of their sticks. He's not sure if that's a good thing though.

God, he has no idea what's wrong with him (_but he knows it can't be good_).

* * *

-x-

[december 2013]

* * *

His art isn't selling and it's pissing him off.

There's only so much material he can salvage from a junkyard—he's an artist, not a recycling center, and with the crappy commission from his last piece, he can't afford any decent metal. So he's stuck sculpting this piece out of parts that are too small and don't match—and not in an artistic way either—and all he wants to do is give up and go back to law school or something.

Well, not really, and he definitely couldn't afford it anyway because he took out this heartbreakingly huge loan to fund Carly's out-of-state ivy-league tuition, so even if he wanted to quit sculpting and move into the wilderness to be some sort of mountain man, he couldn't because, like clockwork, there's an envelope that arrives every month to bleed his bank account dry.

The statement in question promptly arrives for December and he feels like one of those parents who just got laid-off for Christmas and isn't sure how he can afford the newest doll/toy/game for his kid. The numbers on the paper have like, way too many zeros and the sculpture standing half-assembled by the stairs looks even worse than before, and he sort of half-heartedly wonders how long it would take someone to discover his dead body when the front door swings open to reveal Sam.

It's kind of bizarre and kind of awesome that she's there, because he hasn't seen her since she graduated, and she looks busy and determined all at once. She also looks like she doesn't want to be here, but he doesn't think on that too long. But dimly, he muses how long it will take for her to break into the fridge—though he realizes that there's like… no food—but she doesn't make a move towards it.

He slowly starts to remember how different they both are now.

She's got her own fat envelope in her hand and he's definitely curious as to what's inside it. Anything's got to be better that the bill he's holding. Before he can get excited over her even being here, seeing as it's been almost six months, he remembers exactly _why_ it's been so long and he frowns.

She… had wanted things that he couldn't give her, and hadn't reacted well to his gentle rejection.

Her voice snaps him out of his thoughts and he looks up to see her blue eyes trained on him and shaded with a surprising layer of shimmery make-up (_like something his sister would wear_). She looks really pretty but she looks almost too different.

"I've got something to give you." She announces without introduction, thrusting out the envelope for him to take.

Her voice is the same, but it's not, and he just…

He notices that her nails are manicured, but short. It's almost out of character, like the makeup and the tall black high heels. There's a decent amount of space between them, it's almost like a barrier (_of the things unsaid, perhaps_)but a few long strides brings him close enough to reach the envelope, and her.

Up close, her eyes look just as unfriendly as he expected, and a small part of him (_okay not really, it seems pretty gaping, to be honest_) feels a surge of disappointment. Maybe the envelope contains an apology letter, one asking for forgiveness for putting him in such an awkward position, for changing their awesome banter-y dynamic into one he really _really_ shouldn't be thinking about. Like a dynamic that involves her kissing him. And him kissing her back.

"What is it?" He asks stupidly, running his thumb across the expanse where she scrawled his name (_it says 'spencer' when it had always been 'spence'_)

Instead of snapping at him, she gives him a look like it pains her to deal with him (_it makes his throat feel kind of tight_), and he runs a finger under the flap to open the envelope. There's no letter, but there is an alarmingly large wad of bills. He suspects that it's several thousand dollars, and his stomach feels super weird. Actually, his whole chest kind of hurts.

He can only gape, and Sam's kind enough to offer up her version of an explanation.

"It's your reward, for not, you know, letting me, your little sister's best friend, go hungry and/or homeless as a kid. So, many thanks. Maybe now you can get a new couch. The old one looks pretty dismal."

It's as if the giant bundle of cash has turned to hot coals, and he tries to thrust it back into her hands.

"No, no way, you can't give me this, Sam. I never meant for you to… pay me back. We're frien—I did it because—"

There's this loud groaning noise escaping her lips, as if the very sound of his voice is giving her some sort of migraine. He recalls the noise as one she used to make when Freddie would try to lecture her. It makes him frown.

"Sweet baby Jesus, I do _not_ care. Just take the money."

The tone she uses is sharp, cutting, and her dismissal makes the pain in his chest feel like, ten times worse. Sam holds out the envelope for him to take, but he stuffs his hands in his pockets to prevent it. She narrows her eyes.

"Sam, no," He continues, "I can't, I _won't_—"

He's interrupted by the sudden shoving of the wad of bills down the front of his jeans by that small, manicured hand, which is not only amazingly awkward, but also a tad humiliating. Her eyes lock on his once again, and for just a moment, it's like she's good ol' Sam again. But he knows better and his face burns red despite his best efforts.

And then she stands on tiptoe, which is pretty easy because she's in heels, and kisses him, roughly tangling a hand into his too-long hair and pulling him close. His mind and his pulse races, and he kisses her back. He's not sure if it's habit or instinct and in the end it doesn't really matter, because she hastily pulls away, licking her lips. Almost condescendingly, she gently slaps his cheek and turns to walk away.

"Merry Christmas, Spence." She waves behind her, closing the front door of the loft and leaving him standing there stunned.

He later counts the money. There's six thousand dollars. And his face is still hot.

* * *

-x-

[january 2014]

* * *

It's about a week after New Year's when he gets the text from Socko.

The words practically paralyze him, freezing him in place as he leans over the kitchen island.

_dude I think your sister's blonde web show friend is in a porno!_

It can't be true, it just _can't._ But… there's an envelope with six thousand dollars sitting on top of his dresser whose origin he can't really explain (_and so many goddamn popsicle sticks_). Maybe she's—

No. No, it's not, she can't, she's not…

_prove it._

He sends the text before he can even fathom the repercussions. It feels like his heart is in his throat. Socko quickly returns the message with a request for him to go online, and as soon as he logs into his instant messenger, he's rewarded (_or cursed)_ with a thin strip of a highlighted URL.

Almost fifteen minutes pass before he has the courage to click it. He's a coward and a masochist and so ridiculously weak; but he clicks it. His mind is absolutely racing and he and knows that if it's true (_but it can't be true, it can't_) nothing will be the same. When the image finally loads, the figure that appears is burned onto the backs of his eyelids.

_Oh God._

It's a screenshot (_only a screenshot—imagine if it was a clip_)from some… adult film. It's definitely… Socko's definitely right. It's her, oh god it's Sam—he'd recognize that face, those eyes anywhere. There's a man there too, painfully average looking compared to how brazenly gorgeous she is, and the man is doing things to her with his tongue and his hands and _fuck, _he can't look away.

She'd always been such a natural in front of the camera.

And Christ, she's all skin skin _naked skin_ and sweet strong curves and peaks and valleys and long blonde hair and parted red mouth and his body feels like it's on fire. Dying; he is, without a doubt, dying. He loves her and he hates her all at once; the emotion blinds him and can't seem to catch his breath. His body is wound up tight; even his hands are clenched into fists and he swears he's never been this hard in his life. He doesn't know what to think because she, _Sam_, isn't his little sister's best friend in this picture, isn't the girl with the blue remote and the cargo pants and the converse—she's a…

He can't even say it.

The screen abruptly goes black when he yanks the computer cord out of the wall socket and he races towards his shower to wash away the image of her, wanton and willing, and to sate the traitorous ache between his legs. He hates himself. He hates himself so much he can't even breathe.

Scalding water drenches him and he scours him skin raw and he swears he's already come in his hand like a teenager like three times, but he still sees her (_in all of her heart stopping glory_). And what's worse, is that his treacherously overactive imagination is elaborating on the scene currently tattooed onto his brain. It's like a film showing in his mind's eye; now it's _his _lips, his teeth on the skin of her thighs, his fingers coaxing the sweetest, insistent noises from her throat. In his head, she's shaking and shuddering (_please please oh yes please spence spence_) and his name is a loud, keening cry on her lips as she falls…

He collapses in a heap on the floor of his shower, overheated and overexerted and overwhelmed with the images on loop in his head. If he were any weaker, he'd probably cry. But all he tastes is the acidic bite of bile in his throat.

It's late when he finally leaves the bathroom. The continuous spray of water turned icy ages ago and he's cold and wet and feels seven different kinds of nauseous. He's naked and weak as he slips silently into his bedroom, trying to form a coherent thought in his brain. Functioning is pretty much impossible at the moment.

There's a part of him that wants to call her, demand that she explain herself, but he's not her dad or her brother and he's definitely not her boyfriend. He's hates her now as much as he hates himself, but he loves her too, loves her enough to want to play hero for her, even though it's useless (_he's useless_).

What she's doing—it's not okay to him. He might be weak and spineless, but he can't (_he just can't_) sit idly by as she trades her dignity for a paycheck and some controversial notoriety. He's still naked when he calls her, lying on his bed in an ashamed heap of dampened limbs and dampened spirits.

She picks up after the third ring and practically reads his mind.

"You found out, didn't you?" Her voice is neutral, and he's not sure if the sound is unexpected or not. He hardly knows up from down at this point.

"Sam…" he trails, "why?"

There's a sigh—he can't tell if she's annoyed or saddened.

"Why not? I've found something I'm good at. You should be proud of me."

He splutters.

"Proud? Sam, this can't go on anymore. You've got to—"

"Got to what? Come back to Seattle? Maybe things will be just like when I was in high school, right? Me breaking into the loft, you dating countless blonde women—oh yes, I noticed the pattern; I'm flattered, by the way. Is that what you want, Spence?"

His face burns at her words, but the nickname makes him sit up straight.

"Sam, please," He begs, "come home."

The lengthy pause that follows makes him sick to his stomach (_it's over, oh god, it's all over_).

"Will things be different?" She finally bargains.

There's a swooping sensation in his chest, his heart hammering frantically against his ribs.

"Anything," he promises, "everything. Just… please…"

Another silence reaches his ears.

"I'll be back in a week."

The line goes dead, and he falls back on his mattress as if the wind has been knocked out of him. If he were thinking clearly, he'd probably get dressed and get on with the rest of his day, but all he can do is lay there, sprawl across his mattress and marvel at what his life has become.

He has no words.

* * *

-x-

[mid-january 2014]

* * *

She arrives a week later, just as promised, clutching a small duffle bag in her manicured hand. He doesn't open the front door for her—he's not sure what he'd do with her being that close to him, so she enters on her own, unlocking the door with the spare key they both knew she had.

She looks relatively content, more content than she had been the last few times they had witnessed one another. Her hair is just as long and her smile is just as devious as ever. But she's a woman now (_christ, doesn't he know it_) and it's with a woman's confidence that she saunters over, hooks her fingers through his belt loops, and presses a scalding kiss to his mouth (_finally finally finally)_.

The feelings of shame and worry burn away as her lips slant over his, teasing and searching. He's always been a sucker for her, and she's always known it. He picks her up with little effort and she locks her legs around his hips with even less. She's had more practice, he supposes, which is strange and not very comforting, but he thinks he can live with it if he can live with her.

Things are moving fast (_maybe too fast, who knows_)but her tongue is doing the most devious things so he kind of doesn't care.

She shoots him a curious look before inching her fingers below his belt buckle, watching his eyes widen and his jaw go slack. He kisses roughly her to cover up her smirk and carries her to the couch; the one still stained with red dye. It's like it's sort of full circle or something. He doesn't really know and she probably doesn't care, and it doesn't matter anyway because she's here and saying yes and he's here and saying yes.

Twining his fingers into her hair, he guides her mouth back to his once more and it's like everything's right with the world again—or something along those lines. She's smiling wickedly against his mouth, and that's good enough for him.

He figures that maybe this isn't the healthiest way to start a relationship; they've both got some serious communication issues, but they've honestly never been the healthiest of people.

"Spence, your lips are cold."

She mutters this against his skin, working her fingers down the buttons of his paint-splattered shirt. And then her nails are skating across his skin and he can barely get his reply out.

"Popsicles."

* * *

_**yeah, kinda wtf, right? sorry if this was weird.**_

_**reviews would be lovely, please please please share your thoughts!**_

_**x**_


End file.
